


Walls that lie between us

by ember_firedrake



Series: Blockade [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I hate you." The words slurred, half from liquor and half from the tears welling up, unbidden. He hated that—showing weakness when he was already made vulnerable by Miles' presence. For a moment, it was almost enough to make him believe his own words.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Miles frowned, creases lining his face. "It might be easier for both of us if that was true."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Walls that lie between us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlacesBetween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlacesBetween/gifts).



> Set post S1, inspired by clips from S2 trailer. Which means it'll probably be Jossed in a couple weeks, but it's all good.

_"You asked me why I tried to kill you…you're asking the wrong question, Bass."_

The blood pounding in Bass' ears had narrowed to a buzz as his fist connected with flesh. He gritted his teeth through the pain, raising his free arm in a block, before redoubling back with another blow. It was mindless, he didn't even care who he was fighting, just that it helped serve as a distraction. Days and weeks he'd been at this, with Miles' final words to him like a heavy weight he bore.

_"Ask me why I couldn't."_

Bass grimaced, hissing out a breath as his opponent dealt a glancing blow to already-bruised ribs. It wasn't enough, certainly not enough to beat him, and not enough to distract him. After he won this fight—and he would win it, there was no question of that—he needed something else to numb the too-vivid memories plaguing him.

Last night, Bass thought he'd seen Miles' face in the crowd. A double-take had cost him the first blow to the ribs, and whatever he'd seen was gone a moment later. He'd chalked it up to liquor and exhaustion, and later had ducked into an abandoned room to crash for the night. His sleep was dreamless, and by morning it was easier to explain the experience away. He was imagining things, all because he couldn't cast off his feelings.

_"We're still brothers, and as much as I hate that, let me tell you, I do…that's never going to change."_

He got his opponent in a chokehold, letting his anger, hurt, and betrayal course through him as he slowly tightened his grip.

"Bass."

And now he was hearing Miles' voice outside his memories. Bass ignored it, shutting his eyes, his jaw clenched tight. The pounding in his head had reached deafening levels, his awareness narrowed to his arms locked around his opponent's neck.

"Bass! Leave it. You've beaten him."

Bass opened his eyes. Miles stood there, brows furrowed and face drawn. If Bass didn't know better, he'd say Miles looked worried. Of course, Miles would be more concerned about the guy he didn't even know. Bass relaxed his grip, and his opponent slumped to the ground, unconscious. Miles' eyes flickered downward before meeting Bass' again, but he said nothing. Bass trembled, a distant thunder seeming to reverberate in his mind.

"You son of a bitch." 

Why now? Why did Miles willingly approach him now, and never once in all those years they'd been apart? Miles' lips were pressed thin—in disappointment or disgust, Bass couldn't tell. He took up a fighting stance, fists raised in front of his face.

"Come on then, fight me. You've come all this way."

"I'm not here to fight you, Bass," Miles said, raising a placating hand. 

If anything, that made him angrier. "No, that's right. You won't fight me…you'll just leave me hanging without a lifeline. You'll almost kill me, then abandon me with the Republic resting on my shoulders. You'll cut me free, then call my men down on me. You'll just leave me. Again."

He was aware his words had gone slurred, and he couldn't remember how much he'd had to drink before his fight. He couldn't remember much of the fight either. His eyes stung with tears, and he blinked them back furiously. He didn't want Miles seeing him like this.

"Fuck you. _Fight me."_

He lunged, stumbling before he'd made it halfway. Miles caught him, strong arms wrapping him in an embrace. It was too much—that gesture of kindness. Miles' arms were warm and solid, steadying Bass as he slumped, all the fight gone out of him. Miles looked at him, worry and concern on those familiar features he hadn't seen directed his way in years, and a broken sob escaped Bass before he was able to hold it in.

"I hate you." The words slurred, half from liquor and half from the tears welling up, unbidden. He hated that—showing weakness when he was already made vulnerable by Miles' presence. For a moment, it was almost enough to make him believe his own words.

Miles frowned, creases lining his face. "It might be easier for both of us if that was true."

Bass' throat went tight. It was a sobering thought, and one which gave him no comfort. Miles looked around, seeming to notice the attention they had drawn. 

"Can we take this someplace else?"

It was another chance for Miles to slip away unnoticed, but Bass nodded, leading the way to the room he'd claimed. Whatever Miles wanted, no matter how painful this encounter, Bass wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to be in his presence. He hadn't truly wanted to fight Miles, he realized now, just the attention from him that it would bring.

"What are you doing here, Miles?" Bass asked cautiously. He didn't want to overstep any bounds, but he needed to know.

"What does it look like? I'm helping you."

"I'm not…hallucinating or anything, am I?"

A strange expression crossed Miles' features, there and gone in an instant.

"That's my line. And no, you aren't."

One of Miles' hands rested comfortingly at the small of Bass' back, the other on his chest as Miles lowered him onto the bed. Bass felt a disjointed déjà vu, recalling the way he'd helped Miles out of bed following the bombing attempt. Right before Miles had left him.

"Why are you here? Why now?"

Miles didn't meet his eyes as he sat in a chair near the bed. Bass had his answer. He'd had it before, when Miles intervened. Miles was _worried_. Though why that mattered now and not before…

"What's changed?"

Miles looked up suddenly. " _Everything._ Everything's changed, don't you see that?"

Bass laughed, bitter and humorless. "Oh, I saw that. Right around the time my own men started shooting at me. But I guess I was just used to people turning on me. I meant…what's changed between us?"

"The militia, for one thing," Miles said. "Bass…It was never…it wasn't just what you did. The reason I left. It was also what _I_ did. My own guilt. And the feeling that I…that I had led you there, beyond the point of redemption. My own actions led to yours and I—I couldn't handle that reminder."

Bass didn't know what to say to that. Well…he knew what he wanted to say, just not what Miles wanted to hear. He was trembling slightly, and he hoped the hurt wasn't evident on his face. "You still haven't given me a clear answer, though. Why are you _here_? How did you even find me?"

"It was Charlie," Miles said, shrugging. He wasn't looking at Bass' eyes, his gaze resting instead on the bruises and cuts Bass had accumulated in recent weeks. He reached for his bag, pulling out a dark bottle and several rolls of gauze. "May I?"

Bass nodded warily, and Miles shifted his chair closer to the bed. The first press of alcohol-soaked cloth stung, and he drew in a sharp breath. Miles continued talking as he methodically worked. "She spotted you a few weeks back. Did you know there's a guy out here who's got a pigeon post set up? I didn't, until someone tracked me down with a message from Charlie that you were here."

"And now here you are," Bass said, trying to ignore how close Miles was, or the tenderness of his gestures. 

"Here I am," Miles agreed. He still had his gaze directed on his work, cleaning out the abrasions on Bass' knuckles and wrapping them in a layer of clean gauze. Bass could read nothing of Miles' intent. Was it just worry that drove his actions, causing him to drop whatever he was doing hundreds of miles away? Worse, was it pity? Or something else entirely? 

There was a lump in Bass throat, and his voice wavered as he spoke. "You lied to me. That day you came back to Philadelphia. When you said I—I was nothing to you."

Miles' face was pained, and Bass was struck with how weary he seemed. His hair had grown out some, with more grey than Bass remembered. His stubble was several days old and his face was lined with new creases, contributing to his disheveled appearance. But to Bass, he was beautiful. A little more worn, perhaps, but still the man he would follow beyond death.

"Yes, I lied. You matter to me, Bass. You've always mattered." 

Bass blinked back fresh tears, drawing in a breath and hoping he could disguise it as a grimace of pain from his injuries. Miles had said the one thing he knew would cut deepest, even knowing it hadn't been true. Why? To make it easier to cut off ties between them? If it had all been a lie, then he was only hurting himself in the process. Unless…

_"…as much as I hate that, let me tell you, I do…"_

"You were ashamed," Bass said, voice quiet, half afraid of Miles' reaction. "Some part of you cares…you wouldn't have traveled almost a thousand miles if you didn't. But you've grown to hate that part of yourself. You hate that you couldn't walk away from what ties us together."

"Bass, I—"

"No, I get it now. If I could turn it off as easy as you have, I'd have done it a long time ago." 

He turned on the bed, grimacing as his bruised ribs shifted. He didn't want to look at Miles right now, not when he felt this vulnerable. 

"Bass!" Miles' hand gripped his shoulder, pressing him back against the bed. They were suddenly close, tension in the line of Miles' arm keeping him effectively pinned in place. Their faces were a span apart, and Bass could see now how Miles was fraying. He had always been much better at keeping his emotions hidden, but now those carefully built walls were crumbling. 

"As you can see, this _isn't_ easy for me. It's never been easy. And I'm _tired_ , Bass. I am weary to the bone of trying to avoid my feelings in this."

Bass' heart was pounding, disbelief and a thread of hope stirring in him. "What are you saying, Miles?"

"I'm saying things were so much less complicated when the militia stood between us. When I was on the run and I could convince myself you hated me because it was easier than trying to deny how I felt about you. Something I didn't even fully realize until we finally ran out of reasons to keep shooting at each other!"

Hope flared again in Bass' chest. He hadn't dared place any sort of aspirations on this, always certain that there would have been some indication prior to this that his feelings were returned. Age-old excuses had fled, and there was only Miles, his face mere inches away, growing closer as he pressed their lips together. 

It was aggressive, stubble scraping both of them in a frantic kiss, and to Bass it was like a breath of air for a drowning man. Even so, he reached his bandaged hand up, cradling Miles' face as he slowed the kiss to something softer. He let his tongue flick out, teasing the corner of Miles' mouth and turning the angry press of lips into a gentle drag. He wanted Miles to remember this, not regret it. Bass traced the shell of his ear, and Miles sighed against his lips.

_"Bass."_

He would give anything to hear his name on those lips uttered again in that way. He grappled at Miles' shirt—difficult because his hands were sore—until Miles got the idea and leaned back to pull it off himself. Bass was already naked to his waist. He hadn't bothered to put a shirt on after the fight. 

Bass stared for a moment at Miles' chest. He'd seen it before, that dusting of hair, those flat nipples, but this was different. Now, that torso was poised over him, stomach muscles taut, and Bass was caught by the sight of dark hair disappearing beneath denim. His hands followed the line of his eyesight, until they fumbled at the buckle of a butter-soft leather belt. That done, and then buttons beneath it—he'd never been so happy for worn and faded denim—and then Miles was gasping as Bass traced the line of his erection through underwear.

" _Bass_ , wait, let me—you're still—"

Bass was about to say he didn't care about himself. All that mattered was Miles, here with him. His hands were stiff from the fight, however, and the gauze hindered his movement. He tried to disguise a hiss of pain that escaped, to no avail. Worry flitted back into Miles' features. 

"You're hurt, we shouldn't—"

"We damn well should."

"Bass…"

" _Miles_ …please."

He didn't want to beg. Didn't want to have to tell Miles how much he needed this. It wasn't about sex, it was everything he wanted to say but wasn't sure Miles was ready to hear, and he hoped that was clear in his face as he looked at Miles, pleading. 

"Okay," Miles said. "But _let me_."

Miles kissed him again, reaching down with one hand to tug at the button and zip of Bass' pants. When he realized Bass wasn't wearing underwear, he let out a huff of laughter. Bass nipped at Miles' lip in retaliation, then lifted his hips in assistance as Miles tugged material down to the top of his thighs. Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling as Miles wrapped a callused grip around Bass' erection. 

Bass groaned, grappling awkwardly at Miles' hair as he hitched his hips upwards. It was embarrassing how close he was, with no stimulation whatsoever except the friction of his clothes and the fumbling to remove them. Miles traced his fingers around the head, thumb passing over the slit—Bass shuddered, trying to maintain some modicum of control. 

" _Miles_ , I need— _please._ "

Maybe Miles understood, or maybe it was just the desperation in Bass' tone that drove him to the edge as well. He leaned down, pressing himself against Bass so they were in contact from torso to pelvis. Their cocks slid against one another, and a moment later Miles had them both in hand. His wrist rolled in maddening strokes. Bass clung to Miles, gasping, as he spilled himself against their stomachs. Miles groaned and braced his arms on either side of Bass, thrusting into the groove of his hip and the slickness there until he came. 

Miles held himself there a moment, breathing against Bass neck. Finally, he lifted himself back, grabbing a spare scrap of gauze to wipe the mess from them both. Bass watched him, the methodical efficiency of his movements. Was Miles panicking? If he was, he hid it well. 

"How are you feeling?" Miles asked.

"Thirsty. But I'll be okay, after I rest."

Miles offered his canteen, and Bass accepted it. They both seemed to navigate each other cautiously, unsure of how this experience had changed things between them. 

"You know, there's one thing I didn't get," Miles said. "What were you doing here? What did you hope to gain from it?"

He'd wanted to forget his feelings for Miles…but he couldn't say that aloud. Not after they'd bared just about everything to each other. He couldn't hold onto the bitterness that had driven him here. Instead Bass said, "Oh, because you were a model of sobriety when you went to Chicago?"

Miles smiled, just a slight upturning of the mouth as he ducked his head. "Point taken."

"So…ah…I suppose you'll have to head back to the others soon. You've been gone from them, what, three weeks?" Bass tried to make it sound casual. There was no way this could be permanent. None of their recent encounters had been. It wasn't an out, exactly. He just needed to know this hadn't been some kind of emotional outlet for Miles. Because it was a hell of a lot more than that for him.

"Well…I actually thought I'd stay a short while, see if I can convince you to leave. With me. I never thought I'd say this, but Texas has its merits. And if that doesn't pan out, there's always Canada."

"What are you saying now?" Bass asked, hardly able to believe it. The chance to be by Miles' side again. After all that had happened, he'd never thought it possible.

"It's…still complicated," Miles said, voice serious. "It's always going to be complicated between us. But with what's happened, the militia scattered, it's…we aren't the same people we were, Bass. We aren't the people we were six years ago and we sure as hell aren't the people we were six months ago. It's a new start. I'll admit, part of me is terrified, and this isn't going to be easy, but what between us ever has been?"


End file.
